Peter Sam and the Motorbikers
by EndlessWire94
Summary: Peter Sam winds up in a predicament with some unruly cyclists!


**Peter Sam and the Motorbikers**

**Author's note: This was originally written in March 2012. I do not own or endorse Thomas.**

In summer, the Skarloey Railway is one of the most popular tourist attractions on Sodor. Not only do the little engines have plenty of passengers, the Thin Controller often gives holidaymakers permission to camp in the woods, fish at the lake, or hold fairs and rallies in fields close to the line.

One sunny afternoon, Peter Sam was waiting to leave Crovan's Gate with a full train when he heard a peculiar sort of buzzing coming from the road nearby. The next thing he knew, five colourful, two-wheeled vehicles flashed by. Peter Sam was startled and at a loss for words. "What exactly _are_ those contraptions, driver?" he asked when he had found his voice. "They look like bicycles, only bigger and with no pedals. And why do they make that _awful_ noise?"

"They're motorbikes!" laughed the driver. "They're propelled by motors, rather than their riders. The Thin Controller's given _these_ riders permission to have a race in the field near Lakeside."

"My word," remarked Peter Sam. "Are you sure it's _safe_ to drive something like that? I should hate for one of them to injure himself."

"It's probably only unsafe if the riders are unruly," his driver replied. "But don't you worry, Peter Sam; this bunch seems experienced...oh, there's the guard's whistle. Let's be off."

Reassured, Peter Sam chuffed away. That evening in the shed, he told the other engines all about the motorbikes and the upcoming race. Unsurprisingly, Skarloey, Rheneas, Rusty and Duke were most uneasy. "Sports like that can be quite dangerous at times," said Rheneas. "I certainly hope those youngsters don't try anything rash."

"Pah! Dinna fash yerselves!" Duncan scoffed. "What's the worst that could happen?"

"Oh I don't know: cuts, broken bones, concussions, _fatality_ perhaps?!" Rusty rejoined sarcastically. "In other words, Duncan, it's suicide!"

"Fair play, Rusty," interjected Peter Sam. "Driver _did_ say there's nothing to worry about if the motorbikers are experienced."

"I certainly hope he was right, young'un," replied Duke gravely. "A sportsman might not always have the best self-judgement." The engines said no more for the rest of the night, but they thought a great deal.

There was a great buzz of excitement to prepare for the motorbiking contest, and the engines were kept busy bringing supplies to the racetrack. On the day of the race, as a special treat, the Thin Controller gave them permission to watch from the sidings nearby. They looked on in awe, as the racers zoomed gracefully around every corner, easily dodged obstacles and made spectacular jumps on an elevated part of the track. One racer, whose bike was painted bright black with wild flamejob designs, gradually overtook the others and cruised across the finish line, riding bronco fashion and revving his motor loudly. The spectators roared in acclamation, and the engines all whistled. "Well, well, Peter Sam," smiled Skarloey. "Seems your driver was right about their self-judgement after all."

Following the rally, life on the railway continued much as it usually did-for awhile anyway. Then one morning, just about a week after the race, Peter Sam and Luke were heading up to the Blue Mountain Quarry. As they neared the bend just before the level-crossing, they heard a revving noise, followed by the sound of squealing tyres and angry honks. A second later, two motorbikes-one black with flamejobs, the other cobalt blue and scarlet-flashed by. The two cousins instantly recognised the riders as the champion and runner-up from the race, and hurried on to see what the commotion was.

Peter Sam and Luke were shocked: cars and lorries were spread out across the road, tooting their horns furiously at the motorbikers as they zoomed away. Among the group was their close friend Madge the Snub-Nosed Lorry. The engines' crews brought them gently to a halt, and went to ask Madge's driver what had happened. "It's those blasted bike racers!" he burst out. "They've let all that glory go to their heads, and now they're wreaking havoc everywhere they go!"

"I wouldn't be half surprised if the police get at least twenty complaints about them this very morning," chimed in Madge.

"Well we'll certainly do everything we can to help," replied Peter Sam's driver. "Now let's be off: Paxton, Owen and Merrick'll be wondering where we are."

"Erm, driver," Peter Sam ventured as they set off once more, "how _will_ we help?"

"No worries, lad," his driver smiled confidently. "We'll think of something sooner or later. I only hope it's sooner, or those roughriders will have become a terror to all the roads of Sodor."

Soon the towering cliffs of the Blue Mountain Quarry came into view. "Top o' the mornin', Paxton, Owen, Merrick!" whistled Luke. "Have you heard the news?"

"What _sort _of news, Luke bach?" Merrick called back. So the cousins poured out the whole story as they marshalled their trucks around the quarry yard. "Oh my!" exclaimed Paxton. "D'ya reckon the coppers'll stop 'em? Otherwise the hospital might as well have reserved _half _of its rooms!"

"We hope so," replied Peter Sam. "The last thing this island's roads need is a pair of reckless motorists."

That afternoon, Peter Sam and Luke set off back down the line, each with a train of loaded slate trucks. About a quarter of a mile from the level-crossing, they saw a large notice warning all trains to pin down their brakes. Their drivers and guards did their best to check them, but the weight of the trucks was making things especially difficult.

As they neared the crossing, they saw the motorbikers again, this time being pursued by a squad car. Peter Sam and his crew, up in front, could see that the riders clearly had no intention of stopping for them. His driver slammed his brakes hard on, but the trucks' momentum forced them nearer and nearer to the edge of the road. The rider who had won the race noticed, and desperately tried his own brake, but by now it was too late. Luke, the runner-up and the two policemen in the car watched in horror, as the front of the champion's bike slammed against Peter Sam's front bufferbeam, and he tumbled violently into the tarmac below. He gave a low moan, then lay still.

Peter Sam's bufferbeam was severely bent and his right-hand buffer broken off, but he was much more alarmed than hurt. "I didn't _knock_ him off!" he cried anxiously.

"No one's blaming you, Peter Sam," soothed his driver. "I just hope he's all right." Behind, Luke had managed to safely halt his own train, and while one of the policemen tackled the runner-up, handcuffed him and put him in the back seat of the car, the other knelt down beside the champion. "I've got a pulse," he called after a few moments, "but it looks like he's broken his right arm and and a few ribs. He might even have a concussion or a neck injury. I'll call an ambulance from the prison infirmary."

Meanwhile, Peter Sam's fireman called the Search and Rescue Centre, and asked the manager to send Butch the Breakdown Vehicle to tow the wrecked motorbike away. Next he informed the Thin Controller. "Peter Sam can't go to the Steamworks on his own with a damaged bufferbeam," the Thin Controller said thoughtfully. "I'll send for Madge to take him. Rusty, Mr. Hugh and the men had better come to help too."

Butch, Madge and the ambulance arrived, and shortly afterwards, Rusty and Mr. Hugh pulled up with Cora the Brakevan, who was carrying the workmen and their tools. Cora was especially concerned for Peter Sam: they had worked together on the Mid Sodor Railway years before, and were both quite fond of each other. "My goodness, Peter Sam!" she gasped when she saw the wreckage. "You _do_ look dreadful!"

"Don't fret, Cora," Peter Sam called back, trying to smile. "Knowing Victor, I'll be as right as rain in no time!"

While the injured, unconscious motorbiker was heaved onto a stretcher and taken away in the ambulance, the workmen uncoupled Peter Sam from his trucks, and lifted him on jacks until they could slide two old rails, sloping up to Madge's trailer, under his wheels. Madge's cable was fastened to his rear coupling-hook; then she winched him gently aboard and, once he had been secured, headed off to the Steamworks. Butch followed, bound for the local garage with the motorbike. Finally, Rusty was coupled to Peter Sam's trucks, and a workman flagged him and Luke safely through.

The next day, the engines heard from Mr. Hugh that the injured motorbiker's family had threatened to sue the Thin Controller. "Apparently they think _Peter Sam_ caused the accident," he explained.

"How do they _possibly_ expect to win?!" Duke fumed. "It was that thoughtless rogue's own fault for Stephenson's sake!" Luckily, in court, the jury sided with the Thin Controller. The judge ruled that the motorbiker was the only one at fault, and held him and his friend accountable for speeding, putting other drivers in danger, running from the police, damaging the Thin Controller's property, and violating the right-of-way rule which applied to stopping for trains at level-crossings. Both riders had to pay a hefty fine (I daren't tell you how much), hand in their driver licenses, and spend four years in prison.

Early the following week, Peter Sam was mended, and everyone gave him a warm welcome when he returned home. "Looks like your driver was right, cousin," Luke grinned. "You _did_ help put those bikers behind bars."

"By accident, as you might say!" laughed Peter Sam. But for some time afterwards, he was always extra careful while travelling near the road, just in case another unruly motorbiker came hurtling by.


End file.
